


A Good Man in a Storm

by FanchonMoreau



Category: The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: Fiona Apple wrote a Stella Gibson album and this is mostly about that, Gen, Justice for Olivia Spector, Stella/Reed alluded to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24235648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanchonMoreau/pseuds/FanchonMoreau
Summary: Tomorrow, Stella Gibson turns sixteen.Two sixteenth birthdays, two days of transformation.
Relationships: Stella Gibson/Reed Smith
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	A Good Man in a Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I couldn't NOT write fic based on Fiona Apple's _Fetch the Bolt Cutters._ It's an astonishing album, if you haven't listened to it yet. The title is from the song 'Shameika' but the piece was inspired by the whole album. 
> 
> Warning: mention of sexual assault and rape, mentions of murder as shown in the show, portrayal of drug and alcohol use. 
> 
> Post S3. From the prompt 'Brontide - Sound of distant thunder'.

Tomorrow, Stella Gibson turns sixteen.

But tonight her mother is with her new boyfriend, so Emmy climbs in Stella’s window and steals her away. A girl she knows from the football team is having a house party, and Emmy’s nicked some pills from her parents’ medicine cabinet. Stella doesn’t care much for getting high, but she wants to impress Emmy so she takes two pills and washes it down with the vodka that Emmy’s brought with her.

As soon as they enter the door, there are boys crawling all over them. Stella’s done her makeup to make her look three years older than she actually is, and Emmy is just so fucking stunning that it’s impossible for anyone to look away. Emmy slings her arm around her and yells, _back off, she’s with me!_ before swinging them around and into a huddle of women. 

For a few hours, it’s easy. They pass around beers and cigarettes, cheap liquor and joints. A few of the girls peel off and scamper upstairs with the boys, but Stella doesn’t really notice because she’s hanging off Emmy’s side the whole time. She doesn’t know these people, only Emmy, so she keeps close. 

Emmy’s her very best friend. No matter what happens, Emmy has her back.

As Emmy drinks more and more, Stella starts scanning the crowd. The football girls are Emmy’s crew, so she should trust them. But there’s one girl in a jersey and loose-fitting jeans who won’t stop staring at her. And her and Emmy together. She doesn’t know what to think about that.

Someone over Stella’s shoulder pours vodka into her cup. She steals a glance at the girl from across the room and sees that she’s smiling, just a little. But then she turns to ask Emmy if she knows her and sees that Emmy’s gone.

She tears through the house, spilling her drink all over herself as she goes. Someone reaches out and grabs her waist, but she wrenches herself free quickly and yells _has anyone seen Emmy Hunt?_ to anyone who will listen. Her voice sounds hollow to her, and like it’s coming from far away 

There’s no sign of Emmy anywhere, and Stella has been through the house twice. The only place she hasn’t looked is behind the closed doors upstairs— she knows what’s happening in those rooms. 

She could be there herself with any boy she wants. But she doesn’t want to, not tonight. 

Stella goes back to the kitchen, grabs a whole bottle of wine, and sits on the back porch of the house. Did Emmy go upstairs with one of the boys? She’s certainly entitled to, but why wouldn’t she at least tell Stella first? She was the one who brought her here, after all.

And tomorrow’s Stella’s birthday. 

She drinks alone for what feels like hours. When she stumbles back into the house, everything’s wavering and threatening to crash over her. She makes it to the front door, where she steadies herself on a nearby bannister. 

People tumble into her as they go to leave the party. Stella doesn’t pay them any mind, until she sees Emmy’s light blue track jacket approaching her. She blinks and Emmy comes into focus. Her hair’s come loose and her lipstick’s smudged, which answers the question of where she was. But she’s moving so strangely, like she’s thrashing in an ocean. Something’s not okay. 

Stella grabs her arm. “Emmy?” 

Emmy shoves Stella back. “Get _away_ from me, Stella!” She sounds near tears. Stella tries to catch up to her, to placate her, to ask her what’s wrong. She wants to help; she doesn’t want Emmy to go. But Emmy storms off so quickly that Stella can’t say or do anything at all. 

“Hey, let her go,” a voice says behind her. It’s the girl from before, the one who was staring. From up close, her eyes are clear and so bright.

Or maybe that’s just how Stella’s seeing them, after the pills she’s taken and the half a bottle of wine she’s had. 

“Who asked you?” Stella scoffs. But there’s no response. The girl just stands there, slouching against the wall, as if she’s waiting for something.

And it drives Stella mad. “ _Well?"_ she hisses. 

The girl shrugs. “Was she your ride home?” 

Shit. Stella doesn’t know what time it is, and she needs to get back to bed before morning. And while Stella can work out how to get back to her house, she’ll be lost if she tries to find Emmy’s. Emmy’s gone, and whatever is left of the night is beyond repair. 

She sighs heavily and nods. “Not ride home, so much as—” 

“Your walk home?” the girl finishes. “I’m Kate, by the way.” 

Stella eyes her warily. Very little makeup, but several piercings in her ears, heavy silver bracelets and chipped nail polish. She looks older, maybe seventeen. 

“I’m Stella,” Stella says, staring her down. “And I’m fine on my own.”

“I’m sure you are,” Kate says with a smirk. “But I can walk with you, for a bit. Need an excuse to get out of here, really.” 

That makes Stella smile. Okay, she thinks. She’ll let this Kate person walk her home. And Emmy will call tomorrow because she has to. It’s her birthday tomorrow. 

She and Kate walk together in silence. Kate just follows her, not asking where she’s going, not even making polite conversation. As if she knows that Stella can’t help but resent her a little, just because she’s not Emmy. 

Emmy wouldn’t abandon her for a boy; that can’t be what’s happening. Stella doesn’t know why Emmy's not here with her, and she _needs_ to. She needs to know. 

It’s drizzling now, nothing more than a whisper of rain, but it could be a downpour by morning. That’s what she remembers of the weather forecast, anyway. Her mother was complaining about taking her to school in a storm tomorrow. 

“Do you know what time it is?” Stella asks. It could be her birthday already. Kate shakes her head, and they keep walking. 

It will be years before Stella understands what happened to Emmy that night. She will never know the truth, not fully. But she will know that one of the boys at that party hurt Emmy badly, and she will know that she was too in love with her to see or accept it. 

But that’s ages away. For now, Stella is sixteen years old, and she can’t see past her loneliness or her anger to summon up some gratitude for what Kate is doing for her. All she can do is stay close to her and walk home with her in the rain. 

* * *

Tomorrow, Olivia turns sixteen.

She rolls over in an unfamiliar bed and grabs her phone from the floor. Not tomorrow, _today_. Today she turns sixteen. It’s almost six in the morning, her head’s pounding, and she can’t remember the name of the boy whose bed this is. Not that it matters. She’s somewhere in the Queen’s University Belfast student accommodations, and if she gets up and leaves now, she can make it to her bed at Ann and Rick’s house before she has to go to school.

The boy next to her stirs and tries to reach for her, but she’s already out of bed. She throws on last night’s jeans and top and tosses her hair up in a loose ponytail. The blue dye is starting to fade; she thinks she’ll do pink next. 

“No, don’t go,” the boy (J something. John? Jack? James?) whines. “Another round, yeah?”

Olivia barely stops herself from laughing out loud. It was a mediocre fuck at best, and she’s not going to stick around this shithole for a repeat performance. “Nah, s’alright,” she says. 

He groans. “Oh, come on. Why not?” 

And here she really does laugh. “Honestly can’t be bothered,” she says with a smile. “See you around.” She grabs her little bag of molly from the bedside table and her backpack from the floor, and then she’s gone. 

The sun’s just coming up, and it’s actually a nice bike ride back to Ann and Rick’s place. She’s been with them in foster care for just over a year, long enough for her social worker to start imagining happy families. Olivia likes them well enough. They have money but aren’t obnoxious about it, and they don’t care if she stays out late at night or sleeps over with friends they’ve never met. 

But today, Olivia is sixteen. Legally, she can emancipate herself from the care system. She can be free. 

Her social worker says she’s not ready. She goes on and on about how Olivia’s been caught with booze, and drugs, and boys, and that she’s not nearly emotionally responsible enough to look after herself. Which is bullshit.

She’s been through five foster homes in eight years. She’s basically raised herself. 

Eighteen, her social worker says. Two more years with Ann and Rick, and then we’ll make a plan for university or employment or whatever you want. We can figure out what you want, together. 

Olivia bikes up to Ann and Rick’s house, but then she changes her mind and turns around. She’s hungry. She has three pounds in her wallet, and that should be enough for something approximating breakfast. 

She buys a big bag of sweet chili crisps and a coke. She sits on the pavement next to a garbage bin and watches the few people on the street walk by. It’s maybe six thirty now, and the sun’s over the horizon. Olivia leans her head against the bin and looks up. She wishes she were less hungover. She wishes she were _more_ hungover, unable to think at all through the pain and the fog. She wishes she were high.

She could skip school. But what would she do instead? 

She pulls out her phone from her backpack. Text from what’s-his-name from this morning, text from her dealer, text from Rick. She sweeps those away and pulls up her email, where she scrolls through several sale announcements and emails from her social worker that she should probably read before something catches her eye.

Google Alert. Belfast strangler. She opens it. 

_Top Metropolitan Police officer resigns, citing ‘widespread sexual harassment and sexual assault’ within the force._

Olivia scans the article quickly. _In a statement, Superintendent Gibson, 53, said… appalled but not surprised… hundreds of officers accused of sexual assault weren’t even subject to disciplinary hearings… accusers never even had cases heard… handed in her resignation before she could be fired for blowing the whistle... almost thirty years with the Metropolitan Police… no police pension… leading the Camden Cannibal and Belfast Strangler cases…_

Olivia almost closes the article then—it’s not the lurid true crime story she's used to. She set up the alert to capture essays and podcasts from people obsessed with her dad and his murders. Her therapist calls it a vehicle of retraumatization and self-destruction, a way that she lets a violent past and a long-dead father hold power over her. 

Olivia thinks most of what her therapist says is bullshit.

But the murders aren’t even mentioned here. The article ends with a quote from the police officer: 

_“These are my colleagues, and this is my workplace. How can I sleep at night, or go home to my partner and her daughters, knowing that we can’t even be bothered to investigate our own, or protect our own? The police force exists to protect the vulnerable.That doesn’t stop within our own walls. And I think the public has a right to know the attitudes and priorities of the people ostensibly protecting them.”_

There’s a picture of her, Stella Gibson, at the top of the article. She has clear blue eyes and perfectly-waved hair, which is blonde but greying at the temples. In the photo, she’s in uniform, hat in her hands, staring straight ahead. 

_Do you remember me?_

She doesn’t remember most of it. She doesn’t remember her father getting arrested, or discovering what he was being arrested for, or talking to the police, or finding out her father was dead and her mother was going away. She remembers the car driving into the water, but the memory is transient and strange. Sometimes she’s drowning, sometimes someone swims down to save her. Sometimes she lets go of Liam and watches as he sinks to the bottom of an unfathomable dark. And even as she’s picturing all of that in her mind, she knows it’s not what happened. 

But the next thing she remembers has always felt true to her. There’s a curtain drawn around her. She’s clutching a blanket to her shoulders, but it doesn’t keep her warm. The doctor who said she’d be right back seems to have gone. 

There’s someone else there, though. A blonde woman in a dark coat. She parts the curtain and lets some pale fluorescent light in with her. _Hello Olivia_ , she says. _Do you remember me?_ Olivia nods. And then the woman opens her arms, and Olivia falls right in, deep into her hushed voice and her soft coat and the fantasy that maybe this woman gave a shit about what would happen to her. 

If this woman, this blonde woman in the photo, was part of the Belfast investigation, then maybe it was her. Stella Gibson. 

Olivia tosses her phone into her lap and buries her head in her hands. She was never sure this woman was real. But she _is_. Or at least she could be.

She imagines what it would be like to meet her, now. Not in a hospital like before, and not in a police station either. In her head, there’s just a desk, a chair, maybe a small plant and some photographs of her partner or whoever she mentioned in the article. Olivia is sober as she’s ever been. She walks to Stella with a confidence she doesn’t feel and she asks: 

_Do you remember me?_

It’s never going to actually happen. She knows that it doesn’t really matter if that woman was Stella Gibson or not—Olivia’s never going to see her again. But it’s nice to think that Stella Gibson’s out there, and that she gives enough of a shit to lose a little sleep at night. 

It makes her feel a little better. Either that or the last of the hangover is ebbing away. 

She opens her bag of crisps and starts shoveling them in her mouth. God, she can’t even remember the last time she ate. She finishes the crisps, takes a long swig of the Coke, and belches loudly. 

Fuck it, she will skip school. She’ll ride her bike up the coast and find a little spot near the bay. Buy a cake and eat the whole thing herself. It’s her fucking birthday, after all. 

Just then, the sky opens up. Olivia’s drenched within seconds, and when she tries to stand up and get out of the rain, she nearly knocks over a bin full of wet garbage. She steadies herself, gets up, and turns around to find a man standing right in front of her, gawping.

And she just _laughs_ at him. She doesn’t know why, but she laughs and laughs, even as he tries to sputter out an explanation about how he wanted to help her. She keeps laughing until she feels like her gut will burst, until he has long disappeared into the downpour. 

“Twat,” she says to herself. 

For a moment she thinks of her father, and then just as quickly the thought’s washed away. 

She wipes the dirt off her arse and sighs. So maybe she won’t bike down the shore. The cake though, she’ll be having that. She is sixteen years old today, and by some fucking joke of a miracle she wasn’t murdered and she didn’t drown in a car all those years ago. 

Olivia looks up at the sky as the rain comes down harder. She laughs again. She’s still alive— what an absolute cosmic cock up. What a terrifying, lucky thing. 

“Do your worst, then,” she whispers. She keeps looking up, and then she smiles. “Whatever it is, I can take it.” 

Then she gets on her bike, and she rides into the storm. 


End file.
